Dragon's Breath
by The Readers Muse
Summary: They meant to strip her of her Stark roots. To throw away her beautiful Tully colors and warm winter silks and replace them with red and gold. But just like the North, she would never forget. The wolf was in her blood and that, at the very least, was one thing they could never take from her.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own HBO's Game of Thrones or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is my first Game of Thrones story, so I am pretty much testing the waters right now. I have not yet had the pleasure of reading the books, but I'm aware of the general arc. So, in respect to that, this story is mostly based on the material we have been given in the TV show rather than the book series.

**Warnings:** This story is meant to fit in some point between the Battle of Blackwater in season two and before the Red Wedding in season three. This is an AU after the battle of Blackwater. *Contains: adult language, adult content, sexual content, TV show spoilers for all three seasons, smut, a magic spell, 'serious' crack, and cuteness abound!

**Dragon's Breath**

_**Chapter One**_

She woke with a start, her long curls tight and strangling around her neck as a soft cry broke free from her throat. She untangled herself from her sheets, drawing her knees to her chest as she drew in a shuddering breath. She pressed a hand to her breast, feeling it race underneath the thin shift she wore, mind struggling to remember what had frightened her so.

_It was just a dream, _she assured herself. _Only a dream._

It was still dark, perhaps only a few hours from dawn, but already she could hear the sounds of the castle waking - the _klank-klank _of armor from the battlements and the faint, but still discernible murmurings of a group of Septas heading down towards the main hall. The castle servants were already hard at work, stoking fires and readying their masters for another day amidst all the pomp and splendor King's Landing had to offer.

It was soothing in a daft, childish sort of way. She hadn't had a night terror since-

She shook herself from her thoughts, unwilling to dwell on such things as she pushed aside her sheets and crossed to the window. She gazed down at the courtyard below, watching as the shadows gradually lengthened, twisting and warping as dawn streaked across the sky. She was to be brought before the King today. She didn't know why, but she could certainly guess. The entire castle had been abuzz with the news, talking in hushed voices whenever she passed, giggling and whispering as she held her head high and tried to ignore it.

She was to marry the imp. _Tyrion Lannister._

They meant to marry her to a lion and be done with it. She bit her lip, running her hands along the cool stone as she leaned up against the window ledge. In many ways it was good match. Perhaps not in all the ways a young woman might hope for when she is courted by a suitor, but in terms of allegiances and lordly politics, well, one could not ask for a better set of circumstances. She was the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, high born and the heir to a powerful house – and further to the crown's benefit, after her father's death, she was officially a ward of the King.

She was no fool, marrying her to House Lannister would better secure their ties to the North. And with Robb dead - Bran and Rickon feared to be the same - by right of marriage her husband could claim Winterfell as his own. She would return home a lion, not wolf.

_She prayed to the seven that her father would forgive her._

The queen had already ordered new gowns to be made for her, claiming she had outgrown the ones she'd arrived with. And while that certainly wasn't untrue, with her hems now riding well above her ankles and her bodices almost crushingly tight, she knew the truth behind Cersei's supposed 'good-will'.

They meant to strip her of her Stark roots. To throw away her beautiful Tully colors and warm winter silks and replace them with red and gold. But just like the North, she would _never_ forget. The wolf was in her blood and that, at the very least, was one thing they could never take from her.

But logically, that was as far as her defiance could go. She was the eldest daughter of her house, once queen to be and adored by all, she was now, by affiliation to her late father and brother, a lady in disgrace. She was nothing more than a pawn in the hands of both the King and the Small Council, a prized little rook that was to be carefully paired with the House that would best advantage their _own_ interests, their own private little plots and schemes. She had no say in the matter and at this point, the risk of voicing any defiance, any hint of refusal or ill-content on her part was far too great to chance.

_For all intents and purposes, she had been sold, and the Lannisters had been the highest bidder._

She ran her fingers through her hair, considering her position, watching a harried looking baker hurry across the yard, dodging guardsmen and washerwomen alike as he angled towards the main hall, balancing a platter of fresh rye in front of him like a shield. The heavenly smell of freshly baked bread seemed to permeate the air long after he'd disappeared.

Her stomach grumbled in response, mouth watering as her body reminded her that she'd barely touched her supper the night before._ She hadn't had much of an appetite of late._

She combed her fingers idly through a few sleep-mussed tangles as she watched the people come and go. Today she would be expected to play her part, to act surprised, yet still somehow honored by the match when the King announced her fate. Joffrey would be delighted, no doubt; after all, he believed he'd succeeded in holding in her suspense for the past few days. Perhaps he hoped she would be near hysterics, overcome with nerves as to what his Lordship could possibly want with his castoff queen.

But to her credit, she'd heard the whispers long before the royal summons had arrived. It hadn't taken long; she'd simply donned a plain brown cloak and haunted the alcoves by the castle wells until she'd caught up on the latest gossip. And while she'd cried herself to sleep every night since, she refused to let it rule her. She might have to marry Tywin Lannister's youngest son, but she wouldn't give them the satisfaction of knowing it had broken her.

_She was a wolf of the north after all._

_And she'd grown tired of her cage._

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – The next chapter should be up in a few days.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own HBO's Game of Thrones or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is my first Game of Thrones story, so I am pretty much testing the waters right about now. I have not yet had the pleasure of reading the books, but I'm aware of the general arc. So, in respect to that, this story is mostly based on the material we have been given on the TV show rather than the book series.

**Warnings:** This story is meant to fit in some point between the Battle of Black water in season two and before the Red Wedding in season three. This is an AU after the battle of Black water basically. *Contains: adult language, adult content, sexual content, TV show spoilers for all three seasons, smut, a magic spell, 'serious' crack, and cuteness abound!

**Dragon's Breath**

_**Chapter Two**_

Her breath caught in her throat when the Hound suddenly stalked out of the shadows of the courtyard below, emerging from the exit that led directly to the royal apartments with such a fierce expression that she was half-sure the sun would change its mind about rising and defer to his formidable temper.

He paused beside one of the benches, tossing one of his gauntlets down on the wooden seat as he stretched. He let go of a jaw cracking yawn, rolling his shoulders and adjusting his breastplate with a careless grace.

He was tired, she realized. The concept was so foreign, so unknown to her that she seized on it, acting like a woman possessed, or perhaps a girl infatuated. She was too close to the matter to tell, examining this new facet of the man who had come to haunt her thoughts more often than not of late.

She cocked her head, studying him unabashedly. There _was _a difference in him, however subtle. It was present in the way he carried himself, in the set of his shoulders and the slight gentling of his ever present glare. It was perhaps the most vulnerable she'd ever seen him – a sight he gifted to remarkably few.

Her gaze lingered. She liked him like this, he seemed softer somehow, more honest and unaware. There was a grace to his movements when he was alone, a natural fluidity and maleness that was almost mesmerizing to her inexperienced eyes.

_Here, in this moment, he acted more like the man he was than the dog everyone believed him to be._

Things between them could best be described as tense. Their acquaintance was not quite amicable, but neither was it completely hostile. She suspected the Blackwater was to blame for the majority of it. He had come to her after the battle had been won, his armor dented and dripping red across the flagstones. She remembered the moment in terrifying detail; she remembered the expression on his face and the sweaty thatch of hair that hung over his eyes, obscuring the worst of his burns as the torchlight reflected off his armor – flickering like living flame as he shifted in place.

She even remembered the way his free hand had clenched and unclenched at his side, a muscle ticking in his cheek as they'd stared at each other through the crack in the door. _Her, queen to be, and him, the King's loyal dog, begging for her favor._

In the end, she wasn't sure _why_ she'd opened the door, bidding him silently into her chambers and sitting him down on the chair near the window. Nor did she know where the courage had come from when she'd swallowed his disgruntled stammerings and helped him unbuckle his mail – her nimble fingers remembering the task she'd performed more times than she could count for her father and brothers as she retrieved a basin and started tending to the worst of his wounds.

He'd reeked of sour wine and blood, of sweat, sea-salt and singed charcoal. His eyes had been distant then, staring at the stone walls like he could see clear through them and out into the burning water beyond. She'd been about to question him, to demand why he'd scampered to her chambers instead of the court physician's - or countless others who could have seen to him far better than she. But before she could voice it, she'd remembered the story of the Mountain and the Hound and something in her had softened.

_It didn't matter why he was here, only that he was – and that for the first time in a long time, she wasn't bothered by it. In fact, she'd welcomed it. She didn't fear him, not anymore._

He'd told her of a plan then, whispering it in her waiting ears as she daubed at a deep furrow in his shoulder, the skin around it already bruised, looking ugly and painful as he'd seized her by the shoulder, forcing her to look at him. His hands had been like claws, pricking her fair skin as he'd pawed at her. He'd offered to take her north, to leave the King's Guard and all the merit he had earned to smuggle her back home to Winterfell.

_He'd offered to take her home._

But she'd only peeped, mewling and chirping like a lost chick, hesitating just a second too long, and suddenly, before she could even so much as gather her wits to answer, he was gone. He'd left half his armor behind in his haste, perhaps regretting he'd even come to her in the first place as he'd slammed the door, leaving her dumbstruck in the low light, a bloody cloth in one hand and his shoulder plate in the other.

She suspected he cursed her for not realizing the depth of his offer, while she, on the other hand, cursed _him_ for his lack of patience.

She'd often wondered what their lives would be like if she'd accepted the Hound's offer. If she'd been able to summon her courage and let him shroud her in black – smuggling her out into the night as the roar of far off flames spurred their flight. She wondered, if they'd made it home to Winterfell, if the man would have chosen to stay. Would he have gone to fight for Robb and her House in the war? Or would he have remained at her side, as her sworn shield?

When she forced herself to truly consider it, she realized she knew remarkably little of his intentions. Was his offer made more out of prudence and greed, or was it good will or some bastardized form of morality that had brought him to her door?

She had done much thinking that night and for many nights after, turning that moment and all the ones that had come before it over and over in her mind. The hound was no true knight, not in heart, not in name, and certainly not in standing. He cared little for such titles. And yet, he was the truest soul she'd met since the King had come to call on her father at Winterfell.

_The realization had been just about as maddening as the man himself._

Things had changed between them after that night, she didn't know if it was for the good or the ill, but change they had. It had started with the small things, with small gestures and concessions offered up on both their parts. A brash, yet kind word as he saw her back to her chambers after an audience with the king, or a quiet nod in his direction when she attended court, wondering all the while if he could feel her eyes on him as he stood guard by the King's side. Wondering what he was thinking, what he was feeling as the hours trickled past and more than once, his gaze found hers.

_It was a dangerous game they were playing, she knew that. But the seven preserve her, for neither could she find it in her to stop._

But the day she'd truly been forced to acknowledge it had been no more than a fortnight ago, when Margaery had taken her to watch Loras and the other knights sparring in the training yard.

Loras had been willowy and lithe, handsome in his finery and already well attended by a clutch of adoring young things who sighed and gasped in admiration whenever he strayed towards the edge of the yard. He bested one opponent after another, taking down men far taller and broader than himself with careful tactics and valiant strength. Margaery had pointed him out at every opportunity, practically glowing with pride as her younger brother brought down Ser Meryn with a backhanded strike to the man's armored thigh - forcing him to yield as the crowd cheered madly. Ser Meryn had _not_ been amused.

But Sandor? Sandor had been _magnificent_.

The day had been uncommonly hot, and unlike most of the other Sers, for the first time in her memory, he had forgone his armor, wearing only a thin tunic unlaced at the breast and an oiled ox-hide jerkin over-top. His thighs were encased to great effect in a pair of loose leathers, looking comfortable and free as the other knights clanked around in their metal finery, quietly suffocating as he made short work of the whatever opponent dared approach him.

He seemed even larger without his armor, masculine and broad in all the ways she'd never considered a proper ser _should _be as he sweated clear through his tunic, the play of muscles highlighted as the thin fabric plastered itself to his back. Even Margaery had commented on his prowess, whispering tid-bits of gossip she'd heard around the castle as she watched as Sandor and Loras suddenly banded together, their unplanned allegiance unspoken as their backs met, protecting each other's flanks as a group of knights joined forces in an attempt to take down the mock-tourney's two clear champions.

_She swore the woman's words had nearly set her cheeks aflame. _

Sandor Clegane was an anchor amidst a sea of floating nets, brutal, fearless, and cunning. In fact, most knights yielded rather than face him and those foolish enough to try had needed to be carried off the field more often than not when the younger Clegane had finally been done with them.

The Hound had just grinned, his smirk lop-sided and fierce as he fought his way free of the group that dared encircle him. But he didn't fight like hound, no, in that moment he'd reminded her of a _wolf_, a wolf circling his prey, smart in his strategies and ferocious in his attacks.

A fierce sort of pride had risen up in her as the hours rolled past. It had been a fledgling thing but it had been there nonetheless. For she'd had eyes only for him that day - none of the challengers, not even the fair Loras Tyrell, had even so much as tempted her favor.

She remembered thinking that her girlish fantasies about noble sers and manly courtesies had never seemed more lacking as she watched the man duck a vicious swipe. One hand had darted out to throttle his opponent, using brute strength and surprise to his advantage as the gangly knight hung limp in his grasp, all but wheezing out his yield before the Hound had finally dropped him.

Such things, she'd come to learn, were _nothing _like the stories of legend.

He had been as fierce as a Dire Wolf that day, more than worthy of the banner of her house as he'd howled his victory. He stood proudly, at least two heads taller than the pups that dared to worry at his ankles, nodding respectfully when Loras joined him, calling for wine and a platter of meat to break their fast before the next round.

She'd held out hope that he would somehow acknowledge her, but if he'd noticed her presence on the platform above, he kept his eyes firmly on the yard throughout his meal. Instead, she'd simmered in childish disappointment as Margaery had inquired after her needlework, eventually distracting her with talk of the latest styles and patterns in Highgarden as she'd nibbled her way through a square of lemon cake - wondering idly if she dared to make a visit to the royal seamstress to inquire after his measurements.

She remembered as clear as anything the way her fingers had twitched at her sides, mirroring the movements of a needle as she imagined him in Tully blue. _No_, not blue, perhaps the stark yellow and black of his house. Something simple, yet not without elegance, perhaps with the figure of a hound, caught in the act in a noble howl, stitched proudly on his breast.

And while the idea had only lasted for a smattering of moments before reality had grasped it in its jaws and silenced it, it still painted a pretty picture in the back of her mind.

She had always imagined presenting her intended with some homemade trinket, a shirt or an embroidered jerkin to assure them of her affections. She'd had it planned out in her mind for as long as she could remember, from border to hem. And yet, out of all the men in King's Landing who had endeavored to gain her favor, she suspected that the Hound would have been the only one who would have truly appreciated such a gift.

Even then it would be more likely that he wouldn't wear it. Appreciate it, yes. But wear it? Unlikely. He had gold aplenty, especially after winning the champion's purse at the Hand's Tourney. Yet, she'd only ever seen him in the same dented armor – that or his white and silver plated King's Guard breastplate. She imagined he had a handful of drab, shapeless tunics stashed away in his rooms, all of them threadbare, sweat stained and in desperate need of patching. But she didn't see him as the type to go to a tailor or some far flung market stall to purchase new garments until he was absolutely forced to.

_The man had little use for empty things._

_Pity._

She sighed, shaking her head as one of the guardsmen called out the hour, bringing her slowly back to the present. She shivered in her thin shift, biting down on an indulgent smile as she watched the Hound adjust one of his gauntlets, examining the buckles and belts with a critical eye before doing the same on the other.

Perhaps the Hound was right after all; perhaps she _was _nothing more than a silly bird.

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – The next chapter should be up in a few days.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I don't own HBO's Game of Thrones or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is my first Game of Thrones story, so I am pretty much testing the waters right about now. I have not yet had the pleasure of reading the books, but I'm aware of the general arc. So, in respect to that, this story is mostly based on the material we have been given on the TV show rather than the book series.

**Warnings:** This story is meant to fit in some point between the Battle of Black water in season two and before the Red Wedding in season three. This is an AU after the battle of Black water basically. *Contains: adult language, adult content, sexual content, TV show spoilers for all three seasons, smut, a magic spell, 'serious' crack, and cuteness abound!

**Dragon's Breath**

_**Chapter Three**_

The mock-tourney had lasted the majority of the day, with even the King making an appearance in late afternoon, yelling out encouragement to his dog as Margaery sat politely at his side. She'd charmed him with her courtesies, that much was clear, but the King's patience with the revelry below ended up being relatively brief. In fact, he seemed decidedly put-off by the lack of fanfare his entrance had received, whereas Sandor and Loras had the crowd on their feet, chanting and cheering as the King had sulked in his chair, eventually bidding his lady good day and disappearing back into the castle in a swirl of red and black silk.

"I did not realize Sir Clegane and your brother were so well acquainted," she remarked, taking a sip from her wine as Margaery retook her seat, smoothing the folds of her dress with a satisfied air as she tried to hide her interest in idle conversation. She had to admit that she was undeniably curious about the entire affair, gaze drawn back to the training yard as Loras laughed at something the Hound said, grinning openly as the older man tore the leg clear off a roast fowl and ripped into it with relish.

"To my knowledge they are not," Margaery replied. "However, my dear brother has talked much of his assistance at the Hand's tourney earlier this year," she offered, shading her eyes as she watched the two men converse, already deep into their cups as a group of squires tended to their lords on the other side of the yard.

_It was rare that the Hound was friendly, let alone civil to anyone, especially a ser._

Her cheeks had colored, burning into high points of red when Sandor suddenly barked, laughing deep in his throat as Loras finally succumbed to the heat and stripped off his breastplate. The Hound seemed to take that as a challenge, however, because a moment later he'd ripped off his tunic and jerkin, baring his chest as a round of appreciative murmuring rose up from the crowd.

"Men form bonds in different ways than women, I suppose. Perhaps it is not within us to ever fully understand them," Margaery continued, her grin suddenly mischievous as she ducked her head, looking like a woman about to share a confidence as the Hound called for more wine below.

"I have heard it said that among the Horse Lords beyond the sea, men are not considered full grown until they've received their first scar in battle. If that is indeed true, I would imagine the Hound is a man a_ thousand_ times over," she added, the hint of a playful giggle coloring her tone as a slick of sweat gleamed across Sandor's naked back.

She swallowed, hard, cursing herself as she tried to put the image out of her mind_. It wouldn't do to give the woman ideas after all._

"Come now my dear, what do Northerners say of such things?" Margaery inquired, "you must admit he is quite skilled. He seems a proper sort of man, if not a proper ser." Her gaze was thoughtful as the man stretched, muscles flexing and cording all the way down his back as he bent over the table, sweat trickling down the length of his spine as something deep inside her belly in her practically _purred._

She nodded, trying to buy herself some time, weighing what she felt with what she believed the woman wanted to hear as she allowed herself to take him in properly for the first time. From this vantage point he was lightly furred, covered in a winding pattern of bold brown hairs littered amongst a road map of ill-healed bruises and ancient scars.

_A man he was indeed._

She shuddered, tearing her eyes away as she swore she heard the voice of her sepsa whispering in her ear. _A proper lady does not think of such things._

In the end she was so distracted that she spent the next few minutes choking on a bit of lemon cake, and was thus saved having to answer as Margaery piled her with wine and sweet tea as the afternoon meal came to a close and the Hound and Loras joined the others, readying themselves to continue.

She watched the rest of the tourney unaccountably torn. She felt distracted, yet strangely focused, as she seized on the way the man's broad sword caught the light. It seemed, if only for an instant, to be a singular point of a light in an encompassing dark before the blunt edge slammed down on Ser Blount's helm, sending him well into unconsciousness as his squire raced to his side.

She didn't understand it. She'd seen her brothers' and her father's bannermen without jerkins and shifts more times than she could count. And yet, she'd never felt the way she had when the Hound had shed his tunic - so breathless and aware. The feeling had been rich and pleasurable in a way she scarcely understood herself.

In fact, the odd stirring in her breast and loins sent her flying back to her chambers flushed and aching the moment the tourney had come to a close. She'd blamed the sun and a day spent mostly out of doors when Margaery had asked her if she was well. _She'd been certain that it had shown on her face - that somehow, they would know._

She shivered in delight at the mere memory.

She remembered closing her door with a sigh, barring it securely as she'd leaned up against it and tried her best to regain her composure. Her center ached, throbbing under her skirts as she pressed a hand against her sex, willing herself to calm as her heart raced just underneath her skin.

_The only thing was she couldn't seem to get him out of her mind!_

She was a woman grown now; perhaps it made sense that she viewed things differently. That the sight of a half-naked man might- She shook her head. _No_, she wouldn't lie to herself. It was not the sight of just _any _man, it'd been _him_, and him alone that had made her feel this way.

She wanted the Hound. The seven save her, but she did.

And while she knew it was foolish to hope, she couldn't help but pray that whatever it was he felt towards her, it was at least _something_ of the same.

After all, why else would he risk so much coming to her, not once, but countless times since she'd arrived at King's Landing? It had taken her time to see it, but layered in between the rudeness, the cruel words and rough manner, the younger Clegane had always been there for her when he could, when it had had _truly_ mattered. He'd been there for her at the wall when Joffrey had forced her to look at her father's head, to stare unblinkingly at the only man in the world who had given her his love unconditionally.

But that wasn't where his attentions ended. No, somehow the Hound had known. He'd seen the brutal truth of it in her eyes as she'd stepped forward, advancing on her husband-to-be with the intention of ending it, of plunging them both into the brink as vengeance and mania had coursed through her veins like liquid flame. Only he'd stopped her, using his own kerchief to dab at her bloody lip. It had been a small kindness, and an even greater risk, but he'd done it all the same.

He'd reminded her that there was still goodness in the world, and even the most taciturn and brutal soul could be kind and gentle.

He'd been there in the throne room when the news of Robb's victories had reached the capital. He had been there when Joffrey had threatened her, when he'd had her half stripped and beaten in front of the entire court. It had been _his_ cloak that had been draped over her shoulders, _his_ scent that had risen around her, comforting and grounding as the white wool had rasped against her naked flesh.

He'd been there in Fleabottom when the mobs had overtaken them - when those men had chased her, cornered her, when they'd ripped at her dress and underclothes, fighting each other for the right to defile her first before he'd fallen on them. He'd ripped through them like a winter storm tearing through the pines. He'd saved her then, in more ways than one.

_He'd always saved her._

And he'd been there for her further still, in a dozen different moments, a dozen different expressions and actions. Like during the tourney on Joffrey's name day or solid the presence he'd always provided whenever they were within sight of the other.

He possessed a prudent sort of roughness, a practical cruelty that seemed to arise whenever it was needed. Yet, he was not cruel by nature. He was rough, perhaps even brash, but never cruel without purpose. Not like Joffrey, _never_ like Joffrey.

The Hound was not a good man, but he'd been kind to her, so neither could she deem him a bad one either. He was not like the knights she'd heard of in song and legend. He was simply that, _a man_.

Sepsa Mordane had often told her that men spoke and thought in a language completely their own, entirely separate from the thoughts and words of women. Perhaps like two birds of different breeds piping uncertainly through the trees, what they faced was simply a matter of misunderstanding, of miscommunication and perhaps the uncertain hardship of unsung desires.

After all, there was much that remained unspoken between them. There was a familiarity, a bond, yet it boasted no foundation. She was no fool, she knew as well as he that there was little opportunity for such a seed to take root, little hope that what they had could somehow grow into something more.

And yet…

The northern rose still blossomed in spite of the winter. In the fields surrounding Winterfell there was a hardy plant, a flower, blood red and full that bloomed in spite of the cold. If such a pretty, delicate thing could survive, who could say that what _they_ had could not?

She nearly fell backwards in surprise when the Hound suddenly turned, looking up towards her little nook with fire dancing in the back of his coal-black eyes. It was enough to bring her all but _crashing_ back to the present. Their gaze locked as she raised her hand to her breast, attempting to salvage her modesty as his gaze roved over her thin shift with an undisguised hunger.

_Gods!_

It wasn't until someone hailed him from across the courtyard that the moment ended. Her heart was beating high in her chest as she forced herself to look away, to back away from the ledge and pray that no one had seen them.

But for reasons beyond her, while she should have been worrying about rumors and gossip, all she could really think about was the way he'd looked that day in the training yard, his muscles corded and strong as he'd landed blow after blow. And, perhaps, the warmth in his gaze that she couldn't help but imagine was for her.

She smiled as she unpinned her hair, cuddling back underneath the blankets as she breathed in the familiar scent of her bathing oils, closing her eyes as the unique blend of lemon and lavender rose in the air around her.

She knew the truth of it now. She knew what she felt. And she knew what he'd expressed up until this point was far more than the childish thoughts she'd dreamt of in her girlhood. They were stupid notions, fantasies that had amused her during the bitter cold, huddled around the fire in Winterfell's great hall all through the long dark, imagining far off places and knights with fair hair and chivalrous spirits.

She was no longer the same child that had ridden into the capital, fueled by dreams of knightly splendid and delighted by the thought of finally taking up her womanly duties, to become a woman and serve at the leisure of her Lord husband. She'd grown since then, _matured_. She no longer wanted to be Joffrey's queen, or bear the lion a brood of flaxen haired sons and daughters. No, now she longed for home, for the brisk winds and rolling hills of Winterfell. She longed for the embrace of what family she had left. She longed for a roaring fire, and perhaps, for a hound to warm her bed when winter finally came again.

She wanted to be _his_ just as much as _he_ was _hers_. It seemed so small a thing, and yet short of a miracle, she doubted that such a thing was even within the power of both the old gods and the new to provide.

There was_ something_ between them. That much she knew for certain. A seed long since planted that was on the cusp of coming to bloom. And while all her experiences in this hellish place told her otherwise, she couldn't help but covet it.

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – The next chapter should be up in a few days.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I don't own HBO's Game of Thrones or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is my first Game of Thrones story, so I am pretty much testing the waters right about now. I have not yet had the pleasure of reading the books, but I'm aware of the general arc. So, in respect to that, this story is mostly based on the material we have been given on the TV show rather than the book series.

**Warnings:** This story is meant to fit in some point between the Battle of Black water in season two and before the Red Wedding in season three. This is an AU after the battle of Black water basically. *Contains: adult language, adult content, sexual content, TV show spoilers for all three seasons, smut, a magic spell, 'serious' crack, and cuteness abound!

**Dragon's Breath**

_**Chapter Four**_

The King sent for her at mid-day, and while Shae tried to tempt her with soft boiled eggs and a cut of Northern-style back bacon she'd charmed out of one of the cooks, she only managed to swallow down a bite or two of her breakfast. Instead, she spent the majority of the morning running back and forth from her wash basin, dry heaving as her nerves got the better of her.

She must be brave. She knew what was coming. It was up to her to make the best of it. She was a Lady of the North. She had her mother's strength and her father's heart. Surely, she would prevail. _She would show them what the North was truly made of._

So, when her maids began to put up her hair, assuming she'd want to wear it in the style the court favored, she stopped them. Instead, she instructed them to gather it at the sides and let it hang loose, mirroring the style her lady mother so often favored as they brushed it to shining. She allowed them to buff her nails and rub her skin with sweet smelling oils, listening idly to their chatter as she stared at her reflection in the mirror.

She looked afraid.

By the time Ser Meryn came to collect her, she was trembling, skin prickling with goose pimples as Shae hummed encouraging words in her ringing ears. The older woman was a steady presence at her side as she forced herself not to flinch when the ill-tempered man snapped at her, bidding her to hurry as she swept out of her rooms and down the hall, following her feet to the throne room.

She could feel every eye on her as she crossed the room, every servant, every soldier, lord and lady watched her glide across the flagstones. Her soft slippers made barely a whisper across the cool stone as she raised her chin, aloof to their whispering as she hushed past.

_Northern strong,_ she reminded herself. _Northern strong._

She approached the dais boldly; her dress, a pale yellow and trimmed with Tully blue, was flared at the waist. She'd chosen her outfit carefully, matching her old skirts with a new frock, the sleeves embroidered in her own pattern, weaving together the colors of her house in a subtle design that complimented the soft yellow silk that came up in thin ruffles around the bodice. Even the lush curve of her hips was accentuated by the gold circlet her father had given her on thirteenth name day._ Her own quiet little rebellion._

She bowed respectfully as Joffrey glared down at her, his expression imperious yet mirthful as he towered over the room from his seat on the Iron throne. It was almost as if he were enjoying some sort of private joke at her expense, which, of course, if the rumors were to be believed, was in fact quite true.

The Hound was at his accustomed place at the King's right side, looking _anywhere_ but at her, his expression as blank and impassive as she'd ever seen it when Ser Meryn took his place at the King's left, leaving her alone at the bottom of the dais. And while she yearned for some sort of acknowledgement, she knew they both had their parts to play. _Just knowing he was here was enough._

Her knees trembled as she struggled to maintain her curtsy. She bit her lip, trying to slow the frantic thrum of her heart as she looked up at the King uncertainly. She remained there, frozen, as the seconds ticked past and still the King made no move to acknowledge her.

Angry tears pricked in the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Frustration and humiliation rose in the back of her throat like bile as the crowd shifted, wary and bored behind her. It was considered an insult of the highest order for a person, even the highest born lord or lady, to rise before the King had given them leave to. His grace knew that. And still he made her suffer; suffer for the sake of his own cruel amusements, making a mockery of her before she'd even had so much as a chance to open her mouth.

_She was so tired of these games, tired of the intrigues, the untruths and shadowy allegiances. She longed to go home, back to Winterfell, and sleep through the long night until it was summer again and she could start anew._

The entire court had been summoned to witness the announcement of her betrothal. She supposed it made sense considering her status and that of her husband-to-be, but that fact was of little comfort as she caught flashes of faces out of the corner of her eye.

The Hand of the King was in attendance, as was Queen Cersei, Lord Baelish, Lord Tyrion, Lord Varys and Grand Maester Pycelle. She'd even caught sight of Margaery, Loras and their grandmother, Lady Olenna, over the shoulders of a gaggle of lords and ladies. Lannister blond was chief among the crowd when she'd entered the throne room. Everyone who was anyone in the eyes of the King had crowded into the vast hall eager to watch her shame.

_The traitor's daughter. _

_The lion who had finally made the wolf come to heel._

_Mother help her._

Her hair fell across her face as the silence lengthened, her long curls curtaining down her nape as she kept her eyes firmly on the flagstones. The entire court seemed to be holding its breath, _waiting_. Pain blossomed down her calves as the points of her slippers started cutting into her toes, discomfort creeping up her spine as Lord Tywin glared up at his grandson in clear disapproval.

Though, in all honesty, she wasn't sure if that was in her defense or if the man was simply incensed about his grace going out of his way to waste his time. Lord Tywin was a formidable man and not to be trifled with.

Somewhere behind her, a man coughed. A count of six and ten more before the sound of armor grating together echoed through the hush. Somewhere off to her left a Knight shifted, the sound high and grating as somewhere amidst the sea of Lannister blond, a woman stifled a nervous giggle.

She wavered; catching herself before she lost her balance. Joffrey's cruel smile only grew all the broader.

_He is enjoying this_, she realized. Like that moment on the wall when he'd forced her to look at her father's head and the countless others since - he _enjoyed_ taunting her. He recognized her distress, her discomfort, and took pleasure in it.

Her throat worked around a painful swallow. _How could one person be so hateful? So without kindness or mercy?_

But amidst it all, she could feel the Hound's eyes on her and that gave her courage.

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – The next chapter should be up in a few days.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I don't own HBO's Game of Thrones or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is my first Game of Thrones story, so I am pretty much testing the waters right about now. I have not yet had the pleasure of reading the books, but I'm aware of the general arc. So, in respect to that, this story is mostly based on the material we have been given on the TV show rather than the book series.

**Warnings:** This story is meant to fit in some point between the Battle of Black water in season two and before the Red Wedding in season three. This is an AU after the battle of Black water basically. *Contains: adult language, adult content, sexual content, TV show spoilers for all three seasons, smut, a magic spell, 'serious' crack, and cuteness abound!

**Dragon's Breath**

_**Chapter Five**_

"Arise my Lady," Joffrey commanded, airy and almost reproachful, as if she were some silly child who'd missed some courtly cue the King had already offered.

"Your Grace," she replied respectfully, rising with as much dignity as she could muster, her aching toes throbbing. But her stature only grew prouder by the second as the Hound's dark eyes followed her, his gaze almost smoldering as he watched her behind the fan of his dark brown hair.

His hair was lank and in desperate need of a wash, in fact, her fingers actually _itched_ to perform the task herself. She wondered offhandedly, if his fine hair would be as coarse as it looked; if the slight curl that spiraled around the edges could be encouraged or if it was simply a matter of ill-kept hair and an honest sweat.

He looked as he ever did, harsh and fierce. Like a hound that had just finished scampering through the moors, grooming himself hurriedly a few seconds before his master returned home. And yet, amidst the sea of pomp and splendor that surrounded them, where lords and ladies were decked out in the latest fashions and unsteady under the weight of their finery, no one said a word. No one even so much as looked him in the eye. No one save for her.

The message was clear. The Hound quailed at no one. And neither would she.

"Do you know why you've been summoned here today, Lady Sansa?" Joffrey asked, voice mocking, masking his tone with an indulgent smile.

"No, your Grace," she returned, feeling it best not to let on what she knew as she allowed her hands to fall at her sides, making an effort not to wring in them in distress as the King rose to his feet. The movement was lavish in its confidence, pompous in a way that actually curled the Hound's lip as Joffrey's black cloak swirled around his feet, pinned with a silver circlet just off the King's left shoulder as he faced the court.

She took the expression for what it was; _a token_, a boon offered up for her benefit. She tucked it away to treasure later.

"Then I have been left with a great honor, indeed," the King simpered, gesturing around at the room at large with an elegant wave. His long sleeves billowed impressively, fluttering at his wrists in a ripple of royal blue silk.

One of Lord Varys' brows arched incredulously, in danger of getting lost in the frown lines above his shorn head before the expression was quickly masked. Lord Baelish however looked remarkably sour, like a child who had just been told that despite having carefully eaten every one of his greens, there would be no dessert after supper.

Lord Tyrion, for his part, just looked faintly ill. Like he'd spent the last few days lost in his wine cups, only to emerge in the morn and be forced to realize that their soon-to-be betrothal had _not_ been some wine-addled night terror, but, in fact, their new reality.

She couldn't help but sympathize.

Indeed, despite the fact that someday he would expect her to bear his sons, a litter of lion cubs as fair of hair as himself, she felt a stir of kinship kindle in her breast as he caught her gaze and inclined his head respectfully. It was apparent that she didn't want to marry him anymore than he did her, and as strange as it was to admit, that was actually heartening.

"This is an auspicious day, my Lady," Joffrey crowed. "A day where a woman achieves the greatest honor one can expect of her sex, save for bearing her husband a brood of sons, of course," he added, his smile making a mockery of the expression as his mother stilled a few steps below him. Her lips thinned into a grim line as her son ploughed forward, clearly in his stride now as half the court clapped in eager agreement.

"…By being the willing partner in an advantageous marriage to a powerful house!" the young King decreed. His expression was imperious as he raised his voice to be heard above the din, the entire court erupting into thunderous applause.

She felt like she was about to be sick.

She forced herself to meet his gaze as he looked down at her. To look into those perfect blue eyes and wonder how she could have ever judged someone so poorly.

_Stupid girl. _

It seemed so clear now. She'd mistaken superiority and cruelty for confidence and daring, his fake simper for kindness and petty sulks for passivity and intelligence. He was nothing more than a child, a cowardly boy wearing a man's robes and a better man's crown.

_He was unworthy_, she realized. Unfit to rule. Her father had known that, perhaps her brothers as well. People had tried to tell her, had tried to caution her as she tripped headlong into her affections. _Even the Hound had tried to warn her, in his own way._ But she had wanted so much for the stories and songs of old to be true, for her intended to be bold, but righteous, gentle, yet strong.

Coming to King's Landing had been like a dream come true, and then her betrothal? It had been more than she could have ever hoped for. It had felt as though the Seven had finally answered her prayers.

_Silly little bird. _

"So, my Lady, what say you of this _great _honor?" the King chided, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the beginnings of an irritated frown, angry that she had not immediately fallen for his needling - that she hadn't simply broken and begged him to tell her the identity of her betrothed.

She opened her mouth, but to her horror, no words came out. She swallowed, throat fluttering, _panicked. _She'd practiced this for hours, she'd planned it all out, she'd made herself repeat every possible courtesy, every possible scenario the King's cruel mind might take, and yet now, she couldn't even get out so much as a word!

She held back a shudder as the King's hand fell across the handle of the crossbow that had been propped up against the Iron Throne, settling back into his chair as he caressed the ornate smithery with more care then she'd ever seen him bestow on anyone save for himself.

It was same one he'd threatened her with that day in this very room when he'd summoned her to answer for her brother's crimes, her brother's _victories_ in battle. Sandor had never come to her door, never asked for the cloak he'd draped over her shoulders that day. He'd covered her nakedness with dirty off-white, the weight of his hand alighting on her shoulder so very briefly before it'd disappeared - _fluttering and shapeless like a bird with a broken wing that was still trying to take flight._

She still had it. It was tucked safely in the very bottom of her trunk, stashed away from prying eyes and set aside with her most precious things. _The things she wanted to keep safe_.

The King was staring at her, his benevolent smile faltering. _Fake. _

Just off to her right Sandor shifted, armor creaking, the leather buckles tightening, straining, as if every muscle in his body had suddenly pulled painfully taut.

She closed her eyes, willing her racing heart to calm. She could practically _taste_ his rage.

_Gods help her. Gods help them both._

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – The next chapter should be up in a few days.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** I don't own HBO's Game of Thrones or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is my first Game of Thrones story, so I am pretty much testing the waters right about now. I have not yet had the pleasure of reading the books, but I'm aware of the general arc. So, in respect to that, this story is mostly based on the material we have been given on the TV show rather than the book series.

**Warnings:** This story is meant to fit in some point between the Battle of Black water in season two and before the Red Wedding in season three. This is an AU after the battle of Black water basically. *Contains: adult language, adult content, sexual content, TV show spoilers for all three seasons, smut, a magic spell, 'serious' crack, and cuteness abound!

**Dragon's Breath**

_**Chapter Six**_

"My apologies Your Grace, I am simply overcome with anticipation. Nothing would please me more than to hear the name of my intended," she replied, practically tripping over herself as she finally found her tongue.

The King huffed, hand stilling across the arch of his bow with something akin to disappointment. He made a dismissive sound in the back of his throat, like a child weathering some grand disappointment but still trying to put on a brave face.

_He's looking for a reason, _she realized. He wanted her to make a scene, to challenge him. _He wants an excuse to punish me again._

She bit down on the inside of her cheek until she tasted smelted copper.

"Your hesitation is understandable my Lady, considering the circumstances. Women suffer from a more delicate constitution than that of men, a lack of boldness, I suppose," the King replied, examining his fingernails idly before he straightened, clearly readying himself for something.

"As you say, Your Grace," the metallic tang of blood flooded across her tongue as she forced herself to look him in the eye. _He would not be the one to cow her, not again. _

"But enough of these courtesies, enough stalling, I am sure my Lady has waited long enough for this happy announcement, her husband-to-be as well," Joffrey practically sang, all haughty arrogance and false smiles as Tyrion glowered, half hidden behind the shadow of his father.

One of the Hound's gloved hands tightened, curling into a brutal fist beside his scabbard. The worn black leather creaked audibly as she kept her eyes on the King. It looked like a promise, a punishment, like a single drop of blood dripping off Ser Payne's blade come execution day.

She swallowed a frightened whimper, half afraid that if she looked at him now, somehow they'd know. It would be all over for them both then, she knew that much. Her marriage might continue, considering her status, but him? He wouldn't live to see the dawn.

And yet, she yearned to know what he was thinking. _Did he feel it? Or was his anger for something else entirely? Or worse, herself? Gods, she would give anything just to know what he was-_

"I have gathered you all together, on this day, to announce the betrothal of Lady Sansa of House Stark to-"

Only no one was listening. The crowd rippled. There was a disturbance on the further most edge of the room, closest to the doors. And in mid-word, Joffrey's expression suddenly changed, _twisting _like a child unsure of whether he should break out into tears or throw a tantrum.

She turned just as Ser Meryn drew his sword; clearly seeing something she could not as a frightened hush issued from the Lords and Ladies nearest to the commotion.

"What is the meaning of this outrage?!" the King yelled, voice pitching high in his rage as the shiver of unveiled steel echoed in the unnatural hush.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sandor shifted, one hand dropping to his sword belt as he remained by the King's side, glaring into the crowd as he tried to determine where the disturbance was coming from.

But as it turned out, neither of them had long to wait, because with a deafening murmur, the crowd suddenly parted. Men and women usually so reserved were sent scrambling, stumbling backwards and almost trampling over those behind them until a woman, ancient and cloaked in red, the color of the God of Light, was revealed within their midst.

A startled cry rose up from one of the ladies as the woman drew back her hood, and it was only when she stepped forward, walking with a surety and grace that seemed to negate her age, that she understood why.

Her hand flew up to her breast in horror.

The woman wasn't simply ancient, she was _desiccated_. Her features were wizened and sagging, milky eyes nearly lost in a sea of wrinkles, discolored by the dark spots that the elderly so often received in their later years, hallmarks of a life well lived. Only this was no natural thing. She was a specter, _a crone_, something other worldly and wrong, with brittle bones and hollow cheeks. _Perhaps even death herself._

She shrunk backwards, expecting the King's Guard to rush forward. But nothing happened. And the King said nothing, _did _nothing. The room was silent, shocked into an odd, fantastic stillness that took away her very breath.

The old woman, however, just smiled. Her teeth were gummy and yellowed as her lips pulled back in a graceless snarl. _What terrible will could keep such a thing alive?_

"Boy king…" the crone hissed, throwing back her hood as a thin clump of silver-grey hair shivered to the floor at her feet, the strands so delicate that they sprinkled into powder the moment they hit the flagstones, salting across the dark grey floor as she eyed Joffrey with a blistering glare. Her scalp was nearly bare save for a few wisps of pale white.

"Bastard King. _Failed King_. You're not even your _true_ father's son," she spat.

Behind her, Joffrey choked on a breath.

"Your soldiers missed a bastard when you ordered the cull on Robert Baratheon's unwanted litter. Sons and daughters no taller than the wheat your peasants are struggling to grow. And yet, _you_ rule."

"Tell me bastard, does it help you sleep at night knowing that children, a dozen, maybe more, died at your order? That a boy of nine - even a babe of not yet a year is dead and buried? _Does it?!_" she hissed, venomous like only a woman wronged could rightly be.

And in spite of it all, in spite of the horror that was her face, the sunken state of her rheumy eyes and her mad ravings, comprehension slowly started to dawn. _Mother save her, the woman had lost her child to-_

"We are only as good as the masks we wear, your highness," the crone sneered, walking forward now, each footfall echoing through the Great Hall as the guards closest to the dais flinched in place, "and underneath yours there is nothing but a simpering, selfish child too coddled to know common sense and too cruel to care. You're a stunted cub trapped in a den of lions."

"I know your ilk, boy," the woman intoned, her thin, spidering hands steepled in front of her - a parody of a high born lady's grace, "grown men that turn tail and run - quaking in fear when the sun finally sets in the sky, readying itself for the long night."

"For it is in the dark that you are forced to face the truth, is it not?" she hissed, a string of spittle dribbling down her chin, brought forth by missing teeth and the terrible force she was leveling behind each and every word. "That you are _lacking_. _Insignificant._ That you are nothing more than the bastard son of incestuous lust, of_ unnatural_ breeding."

Joffrey leapt to his feet, mouth dropping open to shout for his guards, but the crone just talked right over him, berating him like a mother to a disobedient child even though she had to crane her neck to remain level with him.

"You stink of fear, child. You're_ choking_ in it. You fear, even amidst your livery, titles and glided things, that history will not be kind - that it will record you for what you _are_, not what you _pretend_ to be. You fear that when the histories are written, your name will be forgotten, _unsung_. Your reign unmarked save for a small paragraph in some grand master's history of your House."

"…That you will be known as the _incompetent _king, the_ killer _king. An untested waif that trembled with the knowledge that somewhere, there was a suckling babe, a child of summer, who bore the dead King's likeness – who was more _his_ child than_ you_ ever were – who lived. Does it comfort you to know you stand unthreatened?!" the woman bit out, her red cloak suddenly billowing out behind her, as if caught in some sort of an unnatural wind. It belayed the stillness of the air as a frightened murmur rippled through the crowd at her back.

The delicate hairs on the back of her nape prickled, finding herself unable to look away as the woman's cloak swirled around her feet, expanding and contracting like a stream of blood seeping from an open wound.

The air around her was cloying and thick. Like the night before summer's first storm, everything was close. _Possible. _She wondered if the Hound could feel it. If he could feel the way the air was pressing down on them, choking and malignant, staggering under the weight of the cloaked woman's scorn.

_She could hardly bear it!_

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – The next chapter should be up in a few days.


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